


In which it is too early, and D'Artagnan snores, but Aramis doesn't mind

by Nemeris (Eris18)



Series: a scholar and a priest [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adorable sleepiness, D'Artagnan snores, M/M, Sarcasm, Teasing, and also swears, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eris18/pseuds/Nemeris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's far too bloody early, but there's another lesson to learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which it is too early, and D'Artagnan snores, but Aramis doesn't mind

**Author's Note:**

> So...I wrote a quick sequel.
> 
> Also, there'll be more of this series :)
> 
> You can come say hi at my [Tumblr](http://tommisonspubictopiary.tumblr.com).

Surprisingly, the not-so-soft snoring wasn’t putting Aramis off. Yes, D’Artagnan’s near-honking snorts may have woken him up at this ungodly hour of the morning. But, it was giving him a golden opportunity to see D’Artagnan in a rare state: still, quiet, peaceful.

Aramis smiled, enjoying the moment. He was so tempted to touch, to bring his hands to D’Artagnan’s back, to drag the man close and kiss him awake.But given the events of the night before, Aramis knew this would be unfair; he decided to let his lover sleep on.

D’Artagnan’s snores softened, and he shifted closer in his sleep - seeking the comforting warmth of the other body in the bed. Aramis happily allowed this, gently draping his arm over the other man and bringing his hand up to push the hair out of D’Artagnan’s face.

“...Why,” D’Artagnan mewled, his nose crinkling in the most adorable way. “Why are you waking me up?” He tried to bat Aramis’ hand away, but he lacked any sort of coordination in his current state; it was more like a tired puppy flailing uselessly than anything else.

Aramis couldn’t help but grin, leaning in to press a soft kiss against D’Artagnan’s forehead.

“The sun is up,” he pointed out, “and your snoring woke me about an hour ago. So now you have to be awake, to make it up to me.”

“You make no _sense_ ,” D’Artagnan pouted, his eyes slowly blinking open. “If you’re tired, why are you vaguely suggesting vigorous exercise?”

“I’m not ‘vaguely suggesting’ anything,” Aramis replied, his tone a touch haughty, “I’m explicitly asking if you’d like to stay naked for a while. Especially since I happen to know that Porthos is sleeping down the hall. And since this is partially his fault for _tricking_ you...”

“...You think we should wake him up by having sex as noisily as possible,” D’Artagnan rolled his eyes, leaning over and kissing Aramis, long and soft and slow, before pulling away just far enough to continue. “I’d ask where your ideas come from, but having known you this long, I can safely assume that 90% of them originate from somewhere in your breeches.”

“I resent that,” Aramis said, running his fingers through D’Artagnan’s hair. “It’s only 85%.”

D’Artagnan laughed, and Aramis kissed the laughter from him, rolling them over so that their positions were reversed. Despite the minor gymnastics, the kissing didn’t stop, and soon both men were moaning softly into each other’s mouths.

Aramis’ thigh found its way between D’Artagnan’s legs, pressing up against him. Both men moaned loudly and began writhing against each other, seeking more friction. Their kisses became less lips connecting and more shared breathing as they panted into each other’s mouths, rolling their hips against each other, making enough noise to _definitely_ be heard down the hallway.

Hands wandered, re-exploring skin already learned the previous night, but getting to know it again for the sheer enjoyment of touching and feeling each smooth contour and every inch of hair-covered chest.

It was when D’Artagnan’s hands wandered far enough down Aramis’ back that his fingers were dipping into more intimate territory that an issue arose. As much as he would have liked to continue, Aramis remembered one tiny detail that was about to put a damper on certain proceedings.

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis whispered in between kisses (because why would he stop?), “we ran out of oil, remember?”

“Then work around it,” D’Artagnan smirked. “You’re the one who said you had more to teach me.”

“Were you always this cheeky?” Aramis murmured, kissing down D’Artagnan’s neck. “Perhaps I should train you out of it. Or punish you for talking back. Whichever.”

“Punishment, when you say it, doesn’t sound like punishment at all,” D’Artagnan purred, as Aramis continued peppering kisses all the way down the other man’s chest.

“Belligerent little...” and with that, Aramis pinched one of D’Artagnan’s nipples, laughing at the hiss/moan it caused. “Just be quiet and let me ‘work around’, will you?”

“You’d get far too bored if I did that,” D’Artagnan grinned, and Aramis just _had_ to come back up and kiss him again and again and again, trying to wipe the smugness from D’Artagnan’s face with his own lips, trying once more each time he failed. 

Eventually he pulled back, placing a finger against D’Artagnan’s lips and laying on a bit of The Stare to make him stay quiet. Of course it worked, and so Aramis began once more to plant kiss upon kiss on D’Artagnan’s neck, collarbone, chest. He stopped for a while at D’Artagnan’s toned stomach, nipping gently at the hair on the lower part of his abdomen, grinning when the Gascon hissed and tried to bat him away.

“Be still,” Aramis’ voice was gravelly, determined, “and you’ll get a reward.”

D’Artagnan, to his credit, immediately stopped moving. His breath was coming in pants, anticipation making his heart race as he waited for Aramis’ next move.

For a few silent, increasingly tense moments, there _was_ no “next move”. It took everything D’Artagnan had not to squirm with impatience. And then Aramis, the _bastard_ , started kissing and nipping at D’Artagnan’s inner thighs.

It was at this point that D’Artagnan demonstrated exactly how well his time with the Musketeers had taught him to swear. Aramis actually took a moment to stop and look up; clearly, D’Artagnan had been listening to Porthos. The creativity he was demonstrating was impressive, to be sure. 

But soon, Aramis took pity.

“Shall I continue?” he asked, one eyebrow arched; of course he knew the answer, but Aramis was always one for formalities out of courtesy if nothing else. He was especially in favour of formalities if they made D’Artagnan growl in the way he was doing now.

“Next time we spar,” D’Artagnan near-hissed, “I shall aim for your balls to draw first blood.”

“...That’s not a yes.”

And suddenly Aramis found himself underneath D’Artagnan, his hands pinned by his head and being kissed within an inch of his life.

“I want to _hate_ you right now,” D’Artagnan growled, his desperate kisses now including little touches of teeth - nothing too dangerous, but enough that Aramis was slowly being driven wild. It was the perfect revenge for his shenanigans, he supposed. He didn’t even attempt to struggle free...at least not for a while. He just allowed it to happen until D’Artagnan slowed, lips meeting lips more languidly.

And then the little shit wrapped his hand around Aramis’ cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Aramis hissed, his eyes closing and his hips pushing up into D’Artagnan’s grip. “You fucking little...!”

“Ah, ah!” D’Artagnan chuckled. “Be nice, or I’ll stop.”

“D-don’t...!” And Aramis kept thrusting, his own need to come now obvious after having ignored it in favour of his partner. He was considerate like that. But now, he chased his orgasm desperately, and D’Artagnan let him. “Please...just...grip harder...”

D’Artagnan did so, and Aramis whimpered pitifully as his orgasm crashed into him all too suddenly, but not without being wholly appreciated as these things are.

It took Aramis a moment to steady his breathing; he glanced at D’Artagnan.

What he saw was beautiful. The Gascon’s eyes were wholly concentrated on him, fiery and desperate and begging. There was a moment of complete stillness before Aramis pounced, his own hand quickly going to return the favour bestowed only moments before.

“I was going to suck you,” he breathed into D’Artagnan’s ear as he stroked firmly and quickly, no longer willing to tease. “Two more moments, and I would have taught you everything I knew about bringing pleasure with your mouth. But this way, I can clean you with my tongue, as I did last night after the second time. I suppose that’s a compromise I shall just have to accept, impatient little pup.”

D’Artagnan couldn’t even whine; it became a harsh, choked off sound, evidence of how far gone he was. His hands wrapped around Aramis’ arm, clinging fiercely as he leaned up for a kiss. Aramis was all too happy to oblige; it was this that broke D’Artagnan. He cried out as he came between them, Aramis grinning against his lips.

And, true to his word, Aramis pushed D’Artagnan back and began to lick him clean, making sure to keep eye contact as he did so. D’Artagnan merely panted, his chest heaving and his eyes somewhat glazed as he watched; passive, exhausted, ecstatic.

Once he was satisfied, Aramis crawled up, over D’Artagnan, to kiss him lightly before collapsing next to him. D’Artagnan, once he got his breath back, punched Aramis in the arm.

“Bastard,” he said, trying to pout.

“Whelp,” Aramis countered. “I believe we will have made sufficient noise for Porthos to question at least six of his life choices, and so I wish to nap before I go out there and tease him about it.”

“No,” D’Artagnan replied. “That can wait. I believe I missed out on a lesson.”

“Ah,” Aramis grinned, “so you did. I suppose, since I promised.”

“You are nothing, Aramis, if you are not a man of your word.”

With that, D’Artagnan flopped on top of Aramis, a mirror of their positions the previous night.

“And a scholar,” Aramis added. “Though, I suppose this isn’t very priestly at all.”

“Eh,” D’Artagnan shrugged. “I forgive you.”


End file.
